Walking anywhere is the last thing on his agenda these days. He passed Driver’s Ed and has a Learner’s Permit, the last obstacle in his quest for the Holy Grail of Adolescence—A  Driver’s License.

He is already shopping for a car of his own, wavering between a Ford Fusion (for better gas mileage) and an extended cab pickup truck (to haul the lawn mowing equipment he is using to earn money to pay for either vehicle).

The car shopping talk brought back more memories. When Little Brother [First Grandchild’s uncle] turned 15 and became eligible for his learner’s permit, he made no bones about the fact that he wanted wheels. Not just a car, mind you. His wheels had to be serious. His wheels had to be sweet. His wheels had to fit his jock image.

Macho Guy threw our young jock a curve. He dictated that until such time as Little Brother was experienced enough and reliable enough to rate his own set of wheels, he would have to share mine. That was a low blow for Little Brother and for me.

Little Brother was appalled. Drive Mom’s car? No way. Mom’s car was practical, serviceable, ordinary looking, and desperately in need of a paint job. Everything about it screamed Mom Car. He would rather be a pedestrian than be caught behind the wheel of something so boring—so mom-like.

And so Little Brother’s campaign began in earnest to talk Mom into trading in the ugly duckling for a swan. He dragged me through every car lot in the area looking for The Perfect Car.

We each had our priorities. I wanted a small car that was easy to park, got great gas mileage, wouldn’t break down and wouldn’t cost much. Little Brother wanted a looker. I wanted power steering, power brakes, power windows, power locks, and air conditioning. Little Brother wanted a powerful AM/FM, CD stereo surround sound audio system with equalizer and front and rear speakers. I wondered at the time if he planned to live in the car and that was the reason he was hunting for one with a built-in home entertainment center.

Macho Guy and I tended to shop on the conservative side. We spoke about Tempos, Chevettes, and other economy compacts. Little Brother’s vocabulary was sprinkled with words like Tracker, Grand Am, Camaro. His vocabulary words were all spelled the same way: e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e.

Little Brother reasoned that car prices wouldn’t be so high if the automakers thought people couldn’t pay that much. He was sure we could afford the more expensive wheels because like most teenagers, he was convinced that his parents were made of money. Really? I guess he didn’t notice that I almost fainted the last time I paid for his tennis shoes.

Eventually, Little Brother set his heart on a Grand Am. He pleaded, he begged, he cajoled. Macho Guy and I, who live in the real world, bought a Tempo, thus retaining our title as The Meanest Parents Ever, and Little Brother awarded us the additional title of The Cheapest Parents Ever. Ha! If we were really that cheap, we would have bought him a scooter.

I decided the little ingrate needed a reality check. I asked him if he would prefer to ride the school bus since he found the Tempo so offensive. The blood drained from his complexion. All of a sudden, the Tempo started looking awfully good to him. I thought it might. After all, I was once a teenager who had to ride the bus.